


Worth Fighting For

by missingnowrites



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Grand Theft Auto Setting, Canon-Typical Violence, Fake AH Crew, Fist Fights, Gang Violence, M/M, Multi, Threats of Violence, alcohol tw bc Jeremy's drunk in this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:09:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22411552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missingnowrites/pseuds/missingnowrites
Summary: Michael walks into an ambush. He's in over his head. He's not worried.
Relationships: Jeremy Dooley/Ryan Haywood/Michael Jones
Comments: 4
Kudos: 64





	Worth Fighting For

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LunarLover12](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunarLover12/gifts).



> Winter Prompt for Luna! She wanted a story where one of her fight boys got into trouble, and the others bail him out.
> 
> Title from "Fight For This Love" by Cheryl Cole

The bar was dark, the dim lighting barely filtering through the smoke. Loud voices arguing, shouting, celebrating covered the music, leaving only the thump-thump-thump of the bass drumming in his bones. Michael pressed through the crowd, stumbling through the backdoor. He took a deep breath and grimaced. Outside the air wasn't much fresher, the back alley stinking of piss, trash, and car exhaust.

He glanced over his shoulder to see two thugs following him as expected.

Michael ambled past the dumpster, kicking an empty beer can out of his way. It clattered across the concrete until it hit the wall shortly later. The mouth of the alley opened up to a side street on one end, but Michael was heading for the other: to the parking lot behind the bar. Six cars squashed together in the tiny lot, barely leaving enough space for them to leave, but it had a motion-activated lamp, which was all that really mattered.

The light was on, in fact, blinking out just before Michael walked into range of the sensors and it blinked back on. He let his gaze roam across the parking lot, but whoever it had been was either gone or hiding.

Somehow, he really doubted it was the former.

Michael knew he was walking into an ambush. There’d been something off with the thugs he’d run into inside the bar, the way they pushed and provoked him before backing off with those smug smirks. He’d been sure of it before he caught them following him, but know he knew for certain. Somewhere on this lot, they had compatriots waiting to surprise him.

He was walking into an ambush, and he had no qualms about springing the trap.

Once he stood in the middle of the lot, he heard the scuffing of shoes against concrete, and then one of the thugs stepped on the can littering the alley. Michael turned to face them. In the dim light of the bar he hadn’t recognized their faces, but the light in the parking lot didn’t help much, either, for the simple fact that he _didn’t_ know these assholes.

The smaller of the two was bald, with that sort of fuzzy buzzcut from letting the hair grow back in or forgetting to shave. He had a square jaw and flinty eyes, but what drew Michael’s eyes was his beard. It looked like a rodent had crawled onto his face and died on his upper lip. The taller of the two was built, with bulging muscles and broad shoulders. He looked like the walking wardrobe from Disney’s _Beauty and the Beast_ , all top-heavy with no hips and slim legs.

"You’re one of Ramsey's dogs, ain't cha?" Thug number one with the dead rat masquerading as a mustache spit on the ground. "One of them damn Fakes?"

"Yeah, so what?" Michael stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "What's it to you?"

"Thing is, you're in my neck of the woods, here," Dead Rat returned, and the second thug cracked his knuckles threateningly.

Michael cocked his head, looking at the green graffiti duck sprayed on the alley wall. It was weatherworn, the colour fading and covered in bird poop. Then he slowly turned to stare at the talking idiot. Rat guy waved him off, something impatient to the abrupt movement.

"I don't appreciate Ramsey coming in here, thinking he can just claim whatever turf he'd like, thinking no one's gonna make a fuss. And you think you're so tough, don't cha, coming in here all on your own. Think being Ramsey's bitch is gonna protect ya, don't cha, that you can just-"

"Oh, shut it." Michael interrupted with a roll of his eyes. "You wanna throw down, asshole?" He shifted his weight and beckoned the two thugs. "You gonna wait all day, or what?"

Rat’s mustache was quivering with fury, but Wardrobe didn’t wait for his signal, rushing Michael with a dull roar. Since Michael could see him coming a mile away, he simply ducked his grab, shoving his shoulder into Wardrobe’s stomach and throwing him over. He landed with a satisfying thud on the ground, but Michael didn’t have time to check on him, turning his attention back to Rat.

Rat had used his distraction to step closer, fist swinging at Michael’s head just as he turned. His knuckles were covered in a spiked, fingerless glove. Michael reared back, arm coming up to smack Rat’s hand away. But instead of going for his own punch, Michael grabbed Rat’s arm at the wrist, whirling him around and wrenching his arm behind his back, possibly dislocating his shoulder with the force.

Rat cried out in pain, crumbling to his knees, and Michael stepped up behind him, using his leverage to force him down.

“You gonna cry uncle?” he asked, bemused at how quickly it had been over. Maybe he’d given these guys too much credit-

That’s when the bat caught him in the side.

Michael was flung off the Rat bastard, but managed to turn it into a controlled tumble. He rolled to his feet, arm hovering over his side protectively to glare up at his attacker. The newcomer was similarly built to Wardrobe, a bruiser with floppy blond hair and sunglasses.

“Three to one?” Michael grinned, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth, eyes darting from where Wardrobe was getting to his feet to Rat crawling between two cars, holding his shoulder with a grimace. “I suppose I should be flattered that you didn’t think you could take me one on one, but then again, I was just kicking your collective asses, so.”

“Keep bragging, Mr. Jones,” Rat spit, and the way his gaze moved to just above Michael’s shoulder was his only warning. “We’ll see who will come out on top.”

Michael pushed off the ground, feinting a straight forward-upward jump but actually rolling towards the left, and not a second too soon. Something whistled over his head, close enough to ruffle his hair, at the same time as a kick grazed his shoulder where his head would have been. Two more thugs joined the fight, but Michael didn’t have much time to take them in as Wardrobe came for him in a running tackle worthy of any quarterback, wrestling Michael back down to the ground.

They tussled on the concrete floor, and Michael didn’t hesitate to play dirty: he bit Wardrobe’s hand when it came into reach and kneed him in the groin as hard as he could, pinned down as he was. The first didn’t help much but the second seemed to land, as Wardrobe cried out and loosened his hold enough for Michael to squirm out.

But before he could catch a breath, Kicker caught him with his foot straight across Michael’s jaw. Michael rolled with the force and scrambled to his feet, barely dodging the fifth thug’s punch. The fist brushed his ear and then there was a crackling noise, followed by pain spreading down his neck and along his cheek. Michael yelped, head whipping around to see the taser knuckles the grunt was wearing.

Michael jerked around, driving his elbow into Taser’s gut, pushing him aside. Instead of following him, he was forced to duck under Batter’s attack. His hand snapped out, grabbing the base of the bat, and Michael threw his momentum and weight into pulling the weapon away from the thug. Batter didn’t let go easy, though, tugging on the bat with a snarl. Michael saw his fingers slowly slipping away, knew he was going to win in a contest of strength out of pure stubbornness, but Kicker didn’t give him enough time, sweeping his legs out from under him.

“Shit!” Michael cursed as he went down.

He tried to throw his weight around, roll away from his attackers but the bat caught his temple and then a fist dug into his stomach, electricity jolting through him. Michael cried out involuntarily, because that stung like a bitch. A weight on his legs kept him from kicking out, and then someone stepped on his arm. Michael grit his teeth, trapping the pained hiss behind them.

“Now then, Mr. Jones,” Rat said as if he’d never been interrupted, and his heel dug into Michael’s wrist. “With that issue out of the way, why won’t cha answer a couple other questions I have. Assuming that Ramsey’s bitches know what he-”

“Ey!” a familiar voice shouted, and Michael felt his lips tugging up into a smirk. Rat bastard’s expression was frozen into a comical mask at being interrupted _again_. “What the hell is all this, assholes?”

Jeremy had lost his distinctive cowboy hat at some point in the evening, and the dark alley muted the colours of his outrageous outfit somewhat. He was leaning on the corner of the alley, a mostly empty whiskey bottle in his hand as he squinted at them over his sunglasses. The way he slurred his words and how he swayed on his feet clued everyone in on how drunk he must be.

And more importantly, the thugs didn’t seem to recognize him.

“None of your business. Move along now,” Rat called out once he regained his composure, making a little shooing gesture. Jeremy frowned, before giving his bottle a little rattle. The frown turned into a grimace and he chugged the last inch of the whiskey. Then he wiped his mouth with a gloved hand.

“Gotta disagree with you there, buddy,” he drawled, drunkenly stumbling a couple steps forward. “See, there’s five of you, if I can count right, against three. That don’t seem fair to me now, does it?”

“There’s only one of him,” Rat corrected irritably, stopping Jeremy with a chest to his hand. Jeremy glanced down, staring at where Rat touched him. “And it’s still none of your damn business, don’t cha think.”

Slowly, Jeremy lifted his head to stare Rat down.

“One,” he said, nodding towards Michael, pinned to the ground. Then he raised a hand and patted Rat’s on his chest. “Two.”

“Three,” a different voice announced from the darkness, low and dangerous. Batter let out a scream, and then he vanished between the cars. Quicker than Rat could move, Jeremy’s hand snaked out and wrapped around his wrist, pulling him off balance. Jeremy’s knee jerked up, catching him in the gut, before his elbow came down over his head. Batter’s screams died off abruptly just as Rat crumbled at Jeremy’s feet.

“Three on three seems much fairer to me,” he declared, and Michael threw his head back and let out a loud bark of laughter.

“The fuck-” was all Taser managed, before Jeremy swung his bottle around, breaking it over his head. Michael meanwhile took the opportunity to buck Kicker off and roll out of the way. He ended up at Wardrobe’s feet, and seeing a dark shape lurking behind him, he scrambled to his knees and waited. A beat, and then Wardrobe yelped, stumbling over Michael’s bent form and falling face first to the concrete.

Michael scrambled to his feet, catching a kick to the stomach. He grunted, but wrapped his fingers around the ankle. With a gleam in his eyes, he tugged on the leg, pulling Kicker off balance. Jeremy’s fist caught him in the temple on the way down, and Michael saw his eyes roll into the back of his head before he’d even hit the ground.

“Three down, two to go!” he called out, turning to block Taser’s punch. He was bleeding heavily from several cuts across the forehead and scowling as he triggered the tase fist. Michael pushed him back, right into Ryan’s waiting arms who put him into a chokehold.

“Shhh,” Ryan whispered, the dark lenses of his mask catching the light as the sensors activated the lot lamp again. It looked hella creepy. Ryan kept choking the guy out. “Shhh, sleep now.”

With four of the thugs out of commission, it left them with only Wardrobe conscious. The man groaned as he laid face first in the dirt, letting out a grunt as Jeremy stepped on his back to keep him down.

“Sup, babe. Miss us?” Jeremy asked nonchalantly, shooting Michael a grin. Michael laughed, shaking his head.

“And here I thought my birthday surprise was gonna be sex,” he drawled, wiping blood from the corner of Jeremy’s mouth with his thumb. “However did you get me a fight, asshole.”

Ryan snickered, dropping the last unconscious body right next to their only lucid opponent. “Maybe next year. I can pull some strings.”

“Of course you can,” Michael deadpanned, but wrapped an arm around his waist as Ryan stepped up behind him. They looked down at the last thug. “What are we doing with him?”

“Leave him to me.” Ryan hooked his chin over Michael’s shoulder. “I’ve got some questions for our friend here.”

“Creep,” Michael accused, elbowing him, careful to keep it light. “You gonna leave him in a warehouse somewhere all night while we finish up my party?”

“You gonna keep us up all night after this?” Jeremy asked, with an excited gleam in his eyes.

“You bet.” Michael grabbed a fistful of his shirt and pulled him into a sloppy kiss. “Unless you’re too drunk to get it up, dickhead.”

“I’m not _that_ drunk!” Jeremy protested into the kiss, and Ryan chuckled, the vibrations rumbling against Michael’s back. He pushed up the mask to press a kiss to Michael’s temple.

“Meet you at your place in ten?” he suggested, hot breath against Michael’s ear, and then he nipped the lobe.

“Yeah, sure, whatever,” Michael gasped, turning his head to catch Ryan in a kiss before he could leave.

Best birthday ever.


End file.
